Poster Boy for Term Limits in Congress

(AKA: More o’ dat Questionable Political Commentary I’m always bragging about…)

Congressman Pete Stark? Watch closely now.

Here’s the line:
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Here’s you.

Customer Service Crisis

It used to be that cashiers were all friendly and gabby and customer service-oriented. Hell, back in my high school days when I worked the cash register at Burger King (shut up) I was all ABOUT the customer service! With the smiling? And the polite chit-chat? And the attention to detail? And the speaking of English?

Not so anymore! No, sir! It seems that lately, I’ve had to forgo the retail chit-chat and spend the majority of my time just trying to understand what the frak the cashier– whether at the drug store, the grocery store , the drive-thru (dyeh! “through,” damn it! “THROUGH”!)–is trying to say to me.

Honestly. Just last night TGIM and I made a quick stop at our local drugstore for some earplugs so I could make it through the night without walloping him or violently shoving him over on his side in order to make the horrid–horrid!– snoring go AWAY. As we were checking out, I stood next to him at the counter, engrossed in OK Magazine (Britney jaccuzzied nekkid, y’all! For reals!), as TGIM waited, cash in hand, for the total.

“Seebee yacaw?” I heard the cashier say.

Silence.

I looked over at TGIM, who had that hunted, I don’t know what the freak is going on look on his face.

“Seebee yacaw?” the cashier repeated. A bit testily I might add.

Silence.

TGIM stared blankly at the cashier for a moment, opened his mouth as if to say something, thought the better of it, glanced at me, then back at the cashier.

Luckily I am nothing if not a Super Saver, so despite the rather thick– now, I’m going to go out on a limb and call it Asian– accent (I didn’t take the time to ask him the specifics of his ancestry, me just buying ear plugs and all, but I’m fairly confident in my profiling skillz), I knew what the grumpy man wanted. “Our CVS card is in my wallet,” I told the cashier, “which is at home.”

TGIM’s face cleared. “Oh!” Then his smile faded. “Oh.” Because we like to shop the sale, yo?

Figuring we were good to go, I dove back into my magazine. (Adam Sandler is using a BUTT DOUBLE in his new movie? Get out!)

“Fo numbah?”

Silence. Then, “Um, Cat…?”

I must admit, the only reason I had a clue what the man said was because I know that at this particular store when we are too disorganized to know where our Super Saver cards are– as they have apparently broken off in the dark recesses of our purse, somewhere alongside a lone breath mint and the coins we can always hear clinking in there, lost forever and ever– all we have to do is rattle off our phone number. Which I did. It didn’t process. I tried again. Still no luck. TGIM said, “Let me try mine.” Before he could, however, the cashier barked out the total and put his hand out for our money.

No sale price for us!

Now let me tell you, when I was a Burger King employee, you–as the customer–Had It Your Way, damn it! YOUR WAY! And if employees weren’t all cute and perky and personable at the register, they dragged your non-customer-service-oriented ass back to the fiery pit of hell that is Broiler Duty, by GOD, they did!

Well, except if you were TOO perky and personable, like those times I’d spot a cute boy at the front counter, and I would drop the Chicken Tender I’d been snacking on and race my friend Shane (whose flamin’ gayness was only superseded by the bigness of his Flock of Seagulls ‘do) to the registers where we would jostle for position and hurry to be the first to greet the customer–”WelcometoBurgerKingMayIHelpYouGetOFFme!”– thus securing the sale. Although if girlfriend thought he could out-perky me, he was seriously trippin’. I was a CHEERLEADER. Just sayin’. Then again, if his choice of coiffure was any indication, I’d say “seriously trippin’” was a safe bet. But we were FRIENDLY, see? And spoke with the English? That’s all I’m saying.

But whatever.

My point, you ask? Well… I don’t have one, really. It just bugs me that because I spend so much time at the cash register simply trying to be understood (or to understand), I can’t make with the friendly. Or Shop the Sale. OR finish even one measly magazine.

*gasp*

OMG. I just realized! If customer service continues in its downward spiral into the proverbial toilet… I may have to start subscribing to magazines.

Ah customer service! Ah humanity!

He’s not heavy, he’s my brother.

It’s all TGIM’s fault.

He just had to have the Accord today because apparently the Miata was not good enough for him. What? He couldn’t just shove all three kids in the passenger seat of the Miata? There’s a seatbelt! It’s long enough! But oh, no. Heaven forbid. Honestly. Can you say “selfish”?

I gave in and took the Miata, completely messing up my routine, but whatever. I’m just cool like that. I’m a giver.

It wasn’t until I was already on my way that I noticed there were no CD’s in the car. No tunes. And a gal needs tunes on her drive into work. Five in the morning is the perfect time for tunes. Preferably upbeat tunes because did I mention it’s five in the morning? Way early? Still dark out? Yes? You equal all comfy and snuggly in bed… and I be hatin’? Just so we’re clear.

So I was all, “No tunes? No enthusiastic though not necessarily tonally correct sing-a-longs? No chair-Axl Rose’ing to the grooves? No air guitaring?! Not that I do that?! Because it would be dangerous?! The hell?!”

This lack of tuneage created a rare opportunity for quiet reflection and meditation. But believe me when I say that I don’t like to do any heavy thinking on my drive into work. Nope, not a fan. Five in the morning is too early for heavy thoughts. Heavy thoughts bring a person down, yo? DOWN. And, seriously, I’ve already been awake since four. I don’t need any more downers.

I lasted about a minute and a half before the steady hum of the engine got to me, all mocking me with its steady humminess and whatnot. And that’s when it happened.

I turned on the radio.

I know, right?! The RADIO!

To make matters worse, TGIM had been listening to an AM channel. AM?! Good lord, man. Now just because I can’t stop TGIM from cluttering his mind with frivolous stuff like football stats and political nonsense doesn’t mean I have to join him. Tunes! That’s what I’m talking about! I tried to switch to FM– where the tunes live!– but my fingers were clumsy– so cold!– and unfamiliar with the knobs– not my usual car!– and I ended up scanning instead.

That’s when I overheard a debate about whether or not convicted child molesters should be allowed to attend church because children usually make up a large portion of a church’s congregation..

SCREEEEEEEEEECH!

Oh, but not literally. That was a figurative screech. A mental screech. Not a car-braking-suddenly-on-the-beltway screech. For reals.

Because… what?! Damn it. Couldn’t change the channel now, now could I? I was stuck.

And what really captured my attention was that a majority of the callers were dead-set against letting known pedophiles attend church services. “I’d have to switch churches if my pastor let a pedophile attend!” one lady said. “I’ve got three children to think about!” Another woman remarked that she wouldn’t be able to enjoy services because she’d be worried every time her children were out of her sight, perhaps at Sunday school or Bible class. One man insisted that church was like an all-you-can-eat buffet of children to pedophiles. He did suggest, however, that if pedophiles wanted to have God in their lives, they– like shut-ins– could have church services brought to them in their home.

Heavy thinking ensued.

Because the truth is… there is a convicted child molester in the congregation of my church. And this bothers me. A LOT. And make no mistake: the only reason I do know about this man’s predilection for young girls is that TGIM’s line of work puts him in the way of these people on a regular basis. When I asked the leaders of our congregation whether or not they were aware of this man’s status as a sex offender, they assured me that, yes, they did know, but since he must be accompanied by his wife (or someone else) at all times while at church, it’s all good.

Oh, really?

I thought about what bothered me more: the fact that this guy is allowed to be around my children on a weekly basis, or the fact that nobody saw fit to tell me– a mother of three– that this man sitting two pews over is a pedophile. After thinking much too heavily for five in the morning, I decided on the latter. Love the sinner, hate the sin (love the sinner, hate the sin, love the sinner, hate the sin, love the sinner, hate the sin…), that’s what they say, right? Not that I’m judging the callers, though, because on the most basic level, I don’t want him around me or my children, either. Period. Never ever. I want him far, faaaaaar away, in fact. But I suppose that not many need God in their lives more than these predators, I tell you what, so more power to ‘em. But forewarned is forearmed, that is all I’m saying.

By the time I got to work my head hurt from all that heavy thinking and I felt frustrated– angry, even– with myself for not doing more to alert other parents at church about the sex offender in our midst.

All in all, I think it’s safe to say that I would have rather just had my tunes.

Stupid radio.

It’s all TGIM’s fault.

And we women say, “Puuuull oooout noooow!”

Well, that’s just rude.

I don’t think these Code Pinkalicious women ought to be bossing people around about how to practice birth control.

I mean, honestly.

Did You?

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